


it's just the way the game is played

by r1ker



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>set after/during/between 1.4 and 1.5. wesley seeks the company of wilson following chaotic business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have sunk into daredevil hell
> 
> enjoy the fruit of my labor at the keyboard

He’s working late tonight, having set up shop in Wilson’s sprawling dining room, huddled around his laptop in the center of the great oak table.

 

The glare of the monitor has forced him to take off his glasses and work literally blind (his vision’s so bad without glasses he can’t make out shapes even at the closest distance). For the last few hours he’s been pouring over Intel reports about their Russian interests in the kitchen. It’s all jumbled together this late in the night, paragraphs on paragraphs of Daredevil encounters their various cronies have had over the last few weeks and Wesley has no idea what he’s going to tell Wilson. There’s always some sort of update given towards the end of the week, and from that they judge what to do next.

 

He sighs and slides his laptop a few inches away from him, enough room to rest his head on his folded arms. His sleep-starved brain is willing him to fall asleep like some unruly kid in school, ignoring the mission at hand in order to compensate for the aggregated three hours of sleep he’s gotten each night since they began dealing with the fallout. Wesley’s seen more than his fair share of Daredevil, he reckons. He’s tired of it all, the beat-up henchmen he gets to sign hospital checks for in place of his boss. He does it all for Wilson without complaint, looking to serve where he’s needed, be it at his loafers or the tattered work boots of one of their ground soldiers.

 

One warm hand slides into the crook of his elbow and holds there for a second. “James, let’s get up now,” Wilson says quietly, and Wesley wakes up, eyes squinting against the bulbs of the chandelier. “Come on, up you go.” Wesley stands up and he wobbles violently, manages to find his sea legs against the warm bulk of Wilson’s shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbles, wringing his hands over his eyes in an attempt to drive out the remaining sleep.

 

“It’s alright, you’ve done a lot for me this week. I wasn’t expecting you to stay recharged constantly,” Wilson says, easing him onto the couch and sitting down beside him. They’re much closer than they have been in past days, Wesley feels, shoulders brushing together as Wesley works to stretch out each of his creaking joints.

 

“I’ve tried to sleep when I get home but it just ends up with me awake and talking on the phone to someone I may have said three words to in my former life,” Wesley confesses, slumping down on the couch, trying not to fall back asleep. “I’m sorry I let Anatoly in the restaurant while you and Vanessa were having dinner.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Wilson dismisses, throwing his feet onto the quilted ottoman in front of him. “I should have had better coverage on the outside. Your job was inside.” Wesley looks over at him and he looks almost as tired as himself; worn around the eyes in a typical way but even more so now, as the clock pushes two in the morning. Wesley regards him as an unorthodox brand of beauty, something not forged by vanity but bare necessity, working in the underworld and baring the brunt of change that causes in a man.

 

“He was tended to in a way I would not have suggested,” Wesley finds himself saying and it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. His face flushes hot when he sees Wilson looking down at him with unbridled annoyance. “I don’t want to think about what is to come next because of it. In the moment your heart overcame your mind.”

 

“I did what I did because he disrespected me, James,” Wilson states firmly. Wesley is still proverbially kicking himself in the ass for what he said. Who is he to question Wilson’s decisions? After all, they are done at his own behest, for what he sees fit for the betterment of the situation. None are done out of haste. Wesley reminds himself of this mantra as he rearranges himself in his seat.

 

“I am sorry, sir,” he repents on reflex. “I did not mean it, I… I don’t mean to question your choices.” Wilson softens when he sees Wesley’s penance. He sees in a new light the steadfast service Wesley wants to upkeep for him and at this moment, at the dawn of what is certain to be a bloody and long-lasting street war, it is appreciated beyond measure.

 

“You question outright what the others mull about behind closed doors,” Wilson reaffirms and it doesn’t appear to be of any consolation to Wesley, whose eyes still appear to be at active disagreement with his betraying mind.

 

“Please let me finish,” Wesley continues. “I’m at your disposal to do anything to make this anticipated conflict go by as smoothly as we can make it.”

 

“I understand that, James,” Wilson continues to reassure him. He’s always known Wesley’s loyalty knows no bounds. For a second he almost did it, almost slammed that man’s head in the car door in front of him to see what Wesley would do next, in some bizarre test of his loyalty.

 

Wesley sighs, rears up on his knees to face Wilson. “I don’t want to do anything wrong in what is to come. Any mistake will be mine.”

 

“You won’t, James,” Wilson keeps saying in the same tone as before, working to calm the storm he’s sure is inside Wesley’s mind. For a second he sees Wesley as almost worried about something, and it’s not whether or not each henchman will have enough guns in their hands, it’s something else.

 

He’s worried about Wilson.

 

“I’m the reason for fighting. Should I be eliminated they’d have no reason to go on fighting, go on living the lives they have, go on searching for some source of excitement in the pity the kitchen brings to us all,” he explains and Wesley’s face softens once again. “In a way I like to think we provide it all for them to fight over. Without us, nothing happens.”

 

There they sit, silent, facing one another. Briefly they judge each other’s facial expressions, or lack thereof, as the clock on the wall ticks, a whisper against the quiet. Wilson moves to cradle his jaw, run the length of his index finger along the prominent bone of Wesley’s face, and Wesley leans into the touch automatically. Such a job, working for a man who remains incognito for two-thirds of the day, leaves him starved for contact and even something as affectionate for this is welcomed on the spot.

 

“You must get quite a few looks when you’re not in my care,” Wilson comments, turning Wesley’s face in his hand. Wesley remains silent, a beautiful face on display for judgment.

 

Wesley’s eyes revert to the side, looking down at something that’s not there, and Wilson marvels for a second just how pleasing his assistant, by far the most loyal person he’s ever come into contact with, is to him.

 

A strong jaw, stubble from skipped shaving in the morning, gently curved eyebrows above prominent eyes. He’s a treat to all five senses, Wilson decides. The grain of Wesley’s skin skips across the whorls of his fingerprints as he continues to observe Wesley’s features.

 

“Not as many as you would think, sir,” Wesley refutes as best as he can in this current position. Granted, he’d always been told from early on that he was a handsome boy, no doubt worthy of second looks on the streets and complements from old women in grocery stores, but since taking the job as Wilson’s right-hand man, his love life was decidedly nonexistent.

 

Every waking moment was spent at Wilson’s disposal. That wasn’t something he regretted but rather a detail of life he spent adapting to. There weren’t dates with other people however there were the spectator dates of his boss, such as the one from the evening before with Vanessa. In a way he felt like an unwilling participant, spotting his boss at the door for the inevitable crashers.

 

“Oh, come on, James, you were bound to have some lookers,” Wilson pokes, still observing the fine features before him, drinking in every lash and line on the smooth canvas of his assistant’s face. There was so much to taken in at once. He felt they weren’t to be interrupted any more this particular night so he took his time and Wesley had no choice but to submit to scrutiny.

 

“None but you, sir,” Wesley says dryly, thin mouth turning up at the corners. “In fact, this is the closest anyone has come to me in a while. My dentist never gets this intimate.” He smiles again, his own way of doing so, and he keeps it a bit longer when he sees Wilson smiling too. Finally the mirth fades and they’re left contemplating.

 

Wilson releases his jaw and leans back to watch with a more hands-off manner. “Such a handsome man.” At once, he recaptures Wesley’s jaw and eases his mouth against his. Wesley opens up as if on cue and accepts the feel of Wilson’s lips moving on his own.

 

Wesley tentatively puts his hands on Wilson’s lapels to anchor him in his spot, as if self-control wasn’t enough to keep him doing what he’s doing now, expertly opening Wesley’s mouth with his tongue.

 

Wesley groans and he almost wants to slap himself for doing so, such an immature display for someone so refined as Wilson. Wilson doesn’t seem to object to it, easing Wesley down onto the couch with both hands. From his position on the couch Wesley is consumed in everything Wilson has to offer, looming height and weight engulfing his very being.

 

Hands begin to pick apart loop from buttons on the front of Wesley’s shirt and expose warm skin and Wesley feels himself prickling all over at the sensation of rough palms gliding over his body. He’d fantasized about this, of course, upon first glance at his new boss a long time ago; there had been one or two jerk-off sessions about what’s happening to him now.

 

They had always left him feeling exhilarated and soon shameful. Not so much as the thought of having Wilson do him but rather the noises he made, like he was a twenty two-year-old huddled under his blanket in his dorm room, completely unabated for he lived alone and had no one to hide his undisclosed desires from. When he was at home, it was no holds barred for him.

 

Wesley’s toes curl in his socks as Wilson begins to kiss his neck, capture skin and sinew between the fine grind of his teeth and worry it into bruising. Wesley gasps without meaning to, brings his hand to touch the other’s head for the first time since this tryst began. For worrying Wilson would rebuff his displays of affection he sincerely enjoys it, touching Wesley’s hand briefly as it rests on the side of his head before continuing his work.

 

Wesley’s hard, has been since his boss began to marvel at what he always thought were his basic features, but is now even more so with over six feet of man ravishing him from head to toe. The blood in his brain goes south to satisfy the growing situation near his cock.

 

He works to kick off his trousers and shoes, leaves them in a pile on the floor as Wilson eases down to rest in the cradle of his pelvis, warm breath causing the muscles of Wesley’s stomach to jump. Wilson’s mouth works to draw nonsensical lines in the dips of Wesley’s hips, soft but all the while prominent, while their owner struggles to maintain what’s left of his control.

 

Wesley moves his hand down to relieve a bit of the pressure on his cock but is quickly dismissed by Wilson, gently swatting his hand away.

 

“Let me, please,” Wilson says, almost offering a style of politeness. Wesley groans, fisting his hands in the worn leather beneath him, and allows Wilson to bury his face in his crotch.

 

He breathes in, catching the scents of pure man; skin and sandalwood body wash, and sucks kisses into the flesh of Wesley’s thighs. The give of his body, the very essence of the rawness of Wesley’s body, sends Wilson’s senses into a relay to see which one will be the first to be overwhelmed. Never before has he felt so consumed by feelings of all variety, of satisfaction and of lust.

 

“Please don’t stop,” Wesley asks in the smallest voice he’s ever heard himself having, as if Wilson would, this far in. He’s trembling now, and he’s almost ashamed at just how much he wants this.

 

Later, when Wilson’s opening him with gentle fingers and utter silence against the rasping breaths coming from Wesley’s mouth, normal breathing left behind with his inhibitions and clothes, he thinks of just how savored this night should be. He’s getting well acquainted with the ceiling, counting the marks on the textured plaster, and almost loses sight of it as Wilson pushes into him, heaves his legs up so his knees rest against his chest. He accepts Wilson lying atop him as he moves, accepting a few absentminded kisses as they work to reach completion at the same time.

 

Wesley goes first with a startled moan, filling the space between them with streaks of come as Wilson picks up the pace. Wesley’s body begins to fill, much like a barren desert with fresh rain, all at once with the sensations of his orgasm. It’s enough, more than enough, to leave his legs shaking much like the rest of him. He swipes a hand over his forehead to remove the hair and sweat from his line of vision as he watches Wilson come. The two make eye contact and it’s by far the most intimate display. Wilson appears almost embarrassed but Wesley dismisses that just as soon as it rises, kisses him harshly to finish off.

 

Wesley kisses him through the release and Wilson is thankful. It would have made it worse had no affection been given through the tenuous display. Wilson edges out of him and comes to rest on Wesley as best as he can without trapping him. They’re both breathing heavily but Wesley gives him reciprocity in the post-sex grab for attention.

 

Wilson stands and offers him a hand. There Wesley can see all of him, just how built he is, not at all unshapely but rather solid, muscles rising and gathering to give him great bulk. Compared to him Wesley is lithe but all the more average.

 

They stand together beneath the spray in the shower stall; respectively cleaning but taking time to sneak kisses from time to time, Wesley remains close to him. Not even the sprawling shower could keep them apart. There is no desire to flit to their corners and hide from one another. At this point in their relationship, secrecy would be fruitless, for more has been shown on this night than ever before in the duration of their partnership.

 

Wilson goes to turn off the water and Wesley finds comfort in a large shower towel, wrapping himself up as best as he can and standing on the rug, waiting for Wilson. Wilson smiles, releases a little laugh in the midst of it all, for all he can see in the towel is Wesley’s still-flushed face.  

 

“Good?” he asks him, for two things, the shower and the sex are experiences he wants to make sure went right. Wesley nods and gives him a slow smile.

 

Wesley leaves him only for a moment to find his underwear in the mess they made in the living room. He pulls them on and goes to rejoin Wilson in the master bedroom. There, he’s already climbed beneath the covers and lies resting against the headboard, waiting on his assistant to meet him.

 

“I can’t sleep without them, sorry,” Wesley excuses. “I know you and like you well, but still, I just couldn’t do that to you. Nothing personal, just the way I do things.” Wilson makes that same laugh again. Even after having pretty intense sex and a shower with someone he’s been working as an employee for for seven years, Wesley’s still all business and method.

 

“That’s fine,” Wilson smiles at him and he almost loses it at the way Wesley gets a running start into the bed at the center of the room. Granted, it’s almost a little much for statuesque Wilson to scale each night, the size of the bed yet another luxury he promised to himself early on, but Wesley makes it a challenge, getting a little spring in his step as he rears one knee on the edge of the covers to give him leverage. “Well, that was a workout for both you and me.”

 

“My bed just has a place for me to fall into it,” Wesley deadpans, looking up at Wilson. Wilson just looks at him, seeing more of him tonight than ever before, as the two of them settle into sleep facing one another. Wilson touches his hair, feather light, as he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> every night has to come to an end sometime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bad habit of mine, not knowing when fics are supposed to end
> 
> whoops
> 
> well enjoy
> 
> (ps i wrote this while watching episode 12 so there were some tears jamming up my laptop keyboard)

As he’d anticipated, from the moment he laid his head down on the pillow next to Wesley – _James_ , his assistant, the other one in their operation – he’d always been thinking. Mind racing with the usual things, being eleven years old and terrified, hearing his mother crying, the slam of the car door as he was sent off to live with other family, people he’d never seen before telling him to be quiet and do what they say without complaint. Needless to say it was all the same things he’d heard and seen and said before but nonetheless as disorientating as the night before.

 

He wakes up first.

 

His back’s warm, much warmer than the comforter usually causes it to be. He turns his head and sees Wesley’s sound asleep, curled up with most of his face nestled against the curve of Wilson’s neck. Eyes closed, shoulders rising and falling with quiet breathing (no unseemly snoring or snorting like he’s seen other men do, so unrefined and grotesque). He’s almost a picture, Wilson realizes after a few moments of contemplation.

 

Wilson reaches out to touch him and he almost hesitates before setting his hand down on Wesley’s cheek. Wesley’s a heavy sleeper, he concludes, not even flinching as the hand starts to stroke at his face.

 

He thinks of how simple all this is, waking up and not jumping to business to take care of. Just waking up next to someone, sharing their space and their company, taking time to examine one another up close like it’s never been done before. It’s almost as if they’re meeting another side of themselves here, covers up to their shoulders and legs tangled beneath the sheets.

 

Wilson’s not used to it. Well, to be quite frank, he’s never had any proximity to anyone in his life up until now.

 

Wesley inches closer, comes to rest flush against Wilson’s body. Wilson takes him next to him without question or complaint, draping one arm over the other’s shoulders.

 

The curtains masking the floor-to-ceiling windows mostly hide the sun outside. Wilson’s always felt the need to shield himself from Hell’s Kitchen. Not from her atmosphere, her buildings and raw power, but rather her inhabitants. He never knew what prying eyes would glance in and use his moments of downtime to his disadvantage. It was always best to have some buffer between himself and his enemies. Nighttime was truce time. They would return to their safe houses, to their lumpy mattresses and unwilling families, and take rest, hoping to wake up the next morning and do it all again the next day.

 

Wilson’s apartment was his shelter. He built it from the inside out, beginning his refortification in his master suite. There were no points of access, the fine lines where the walls came together underneath paint and tasteful art flush against one another. The windows in the bathrooms and closets were covered with curtains that weren’t surreptitiously placed there under fear of invasion. It was almost as if he just put them there casually, a new homeowner looking to decorate to the utmost degree. The carpet that had been there when he first acquired the place had been ripped out almost immediately and replaced with fine hardwood, tacked together so tightly there was no room for error should something break or spill on it. They were by far one of his favorite aspects about the whole place. There was something about walking on a fresh floor, one free of shattered glass from his parents’ mishaps and dirt from inattentive cleaning that just set something right in him. This lifestyle, the one of refined tastes and exquisite casualty, was something meant to be.

 

He’s got the urge to pee about twenty minutes into being awake and he can’t bring himself to lay Wesley back down on the bed and leave him, even if for a second. He stands it as best as he can, crossing his legs, and holding the man in his arm loosely as he enters his sixth hour of rest. No doubt it was the most sleep he’d gotten in a while, and it’d be a sin for Wilson to wake him now.

 

A brief fit makes him start to ease Wesley back down onto his own pillow and side of the bed but Wesley silently objects, holds onto Wilson tight and refuses to budge. Wilson tries again, with a little more force, picking up Wesley’s arms and holding the hands between his for a second, a kiss placed on them as they’re clasped together, before setting him down. Wilson rearranges the blankets on him as he stands by his side of the bed and waits just another second before going to the adjoining bathroom.

 

He relieves himself without fanfare, seeing Wesley’s glasses on the vanity when he goes to wash his face and his hands. He picks them up, bending the arms back just enough for him to peer through them, and he pulls back with a grimace. His vision was so distorted it’s a wonder he didn’t have a headache, the prescription of the lens strong for his taste. He sets them back down, folding them back together, and leaves. Wesley’s sitting up now in the center of the bed, still half-asleep but looking like he’s trying to wake up against his body’s will. Wilson retreats back to the bathroom to get Wesley’s glasses.

 

“Here,” he says in his you’re-still-half-asleep voice, and Wesley takes them quietly, peering up at Wilson’s distorted face as best as he can. “One second.” Wilson leans over the bed, one knee keeping him anchored to the mattress for leverage, and kisses Wesley good morning.

 

Wesley takes it as best as his wake-up reflexes will let him, one hand going right back to the same spot he had it in last night when they were doing the exact same thing. Wesley thinks back to what Vanessa told him as she was leaving with Wilson that night after the crashed dinner. Something was said to him that was so hushed he had to strain to hear it. Even Wilson himself, quite the intuitive individual with notable hearing, wasn’t able to pick up on it. As Wesley kisses Wilson to an inch of his own life, the words come floating back to the screen his closed eyes make.

_He loves you, you know. More than you’ll ever know. I’d be a fool not to think so._

Wesley remembers that she didn’t sneer, didn’t look at him with disgust for slowly, over the course of seven years; he’d begun to take the man she had come to love. She just stated a fact, like she did it everyday, saying things like the sky was blue and clouds were white. Maybe their bond, their love, was more evident than Wesley had to pretend to search for. Early on, when he first began working for Wilson, he tried to deny the attraction. First, he didn’t think it was appropriate, someone so inferior lusting after a man who’d gone through great tragedy and despair to reach his current position in society as he began to work on bringing him – no, the two of them, the whole population of Hell’s Kitchen – back from the brink of nonexistence. He began to accept it over the course of the next few years. It became something as routine as brushing his teeth and tying his shoes, meeting with Wilson and trying to tamp down the pull of his chest muscles every time he saw the statuesque man, the rugged features.

 

Wilson can tell he’s thinking too much as he watches Wesley’s closed eyes flit from beneath the skin. He pulls back and sees the dazed look in Wesley’s weathered eyes. He cradles Wesley’s face in his hands, leaning back into kiss him when he gets confirmation that everything’s fine.

 

“I’m still tired,” Wesley mumbles, rolling his shoulders as Wilson moves to sit down next to him. He rests his forehead against the muscle of Wilson’s shoulder. They sit in comfortable silence, save for a few of Wesley’s full-body yawns that come through time to time to chip away at the quiet.

 

After a few minutes spent in each other’s space, this time out of the comfort of sleep, Wilson rises, holds Wesley’s hand as he tucks and rolls out of the bed.

 

“Next time you’re here I’ll get a stepstool,” Wilson deadpans and Wesley smiles, tired eyes crinkling at the edges. Wesley snags his robe off of a chair in the hallway leading to the great room and kitchen, wrapping himself in its warmth and smell as if he’s back in that luxurious bed.

 

Coffee’s started and the two regroup at the dining table, sitting in front of one another near the end closest to the breakfast bar. Wilson goes for the paper and Wesley checks up on his phone. Nothing new to report on the business front, he finds happily, and slides it on down the table as Wilson comes back with two cups of steaming coffee, paper tucked beneath his arm.

 

Wesley’s mug’s a long-forgotten souvenir from Walt Disney World in Orlando, the colorful decoration on the side chipping off from years of washing and using. There’s a name on the side, embroidered on a gold, sparkling scroll at the feet of beloved Mickey, a special touch a loving mother must have sprung for at the behest of her excited child.

 

_Wilson._

 

He takes a sip out of it and the words leave his mouth before he’s able to stop them, yet another repeat of the night before.

 

“Goddamn, that’s good coffee,” he breathes, setting the cup down reluctantly to rest his throat from the heat of the drink. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually have good coffee in the morning. Most of it’s supposed to just wake me up and not taste good.”

 

Wilson smiles at him over the rim of his cup. “That’s fine. I don’t even notice the taste anymore. It’s just rocket fuel.” They sip their coffee and enjoy each other’s company, the night after they enjoyed it a little more than they had intended to, and soon finish.

Wilson retires to get dressed for the day and he kicks himself when he realizes he’s got another that needs something other than a rumpled suit and stained underwear to wear. He calls down to the Laundromat at the basement of his complex, phones for Wesley’s sizes in business clothes (it was bad just how close he realizes he came to his sizes later, the shirt and slacks fitting Wesley like a glove, for he remembered the slopes of Wesley’s thighs from where they were around his head the night before). They arrive hastily and he takes the paper package upstairs and gives them to Wesley, who’s busy washing his face in the sink.

 

“Thank you,” Wesley says to him as he dries his face with a hand towel. He unwraps them with one hand, slinging the towel into a chute near the door, and flicks out the tags to read the sizing. “How’d you know?”

 

“There are lots of things I know about you,” Wilson begins, grabbing the shirt and helping Wesley slide his arms into the sleeves. He rests his lips at the lobe of Wesley’s right ear. Wesley tenses just for a moment but relaxes once Wilson starts helping him button the shirt.

 

Intimately, a hand fumbling with Wesley’s to begin buttoning the fine pearl snaps, Wilson recounts, “Thirty-six inch waist, and thirty-four inch inseam. Size large button-up but a medium tank beneath; you like to feel roomy in it as it rests against you. You don’t like polyester; I’ve seen you fidgeting in new shirts, ones that appear to be all of that fiber, but you act almost at ease when you’re back in your typical cotton ones. I decided to speak to your likings.” Wilson finishes the last button and steps back. He puts his hands on Wesley’s shoulders and turns him around slowly. His observations were all correct. Wesley looks just as sharp as he did the day before, this time in a blue three-piece suit and white shirt.

 

Wesley looks at him, all business, but allows his face to have a bit more softness, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Wilson observes him and touches the side of his cheek, feels the slide of smooth skin against his palm and the pulls of the muscles as they smile.

 

“Very nice. Now, let’s get to work.”


End file.
